


All's Fair in Love and Drinking Games

by BerityBaker



Series: All in the Details [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BerityBaker/pseuds/BerityBaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock follows John out to the pub, where they share more than a little banter and more than a few drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not only my first real Johnlock fic, but my first real fic in general. I really hope someone out there finds it mildly appealing. If so, tell me in the most likely place to find me--on Tumblr ([holdencaulfieldinthetardis](http://holdencaulfieldinthetardis.tumblr.com/))--and I will probably love you forever, unless of course you have ever harmed a small animal for your own enjoyment. (But seriously. It would make my day and I would probably do anything you want me to.) Also, obviously, nothing belongs to me except the headcanons, and I'm willing to share those with you.
> 
> EDIT, 21 SEPT 2013: I neglected to point out before that this particular fic, in my mind, fits between A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker. That's what I'm trying to do here--every piece of the story, "All's Fair" included, is meant to take place between two episodes, with maybe a little overlap into the episode, for some insight into John's head. That's a large part of what made this story so fun to write, and hopefully that makes it fun to read, too.

For what seemed to be the millionth time, John looked up from his computer to see Sherlock enter the flat looking very much like he’d rolled around in something unpleasant. Neither man bothered to bat an eye at his appearance, and Sherlock strolled to the bathroom for a shower without so much as a “Hello.”

John sighed and shook his head, closing the laptop. He went to the closet for a towel, knowing Sherlock would have forgotten to get one for himself, and then knocked on the door. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“I’ve got a towel.”

The door opened, and one slender arm reached out. Once it had retreated, the voice it belonged to called out an obligatory, “Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome.” John looked down at his shoes. “Er, Sherlock?”

“What is it, John?” Sherlock replied melodramatically.

“I’m going out.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Just thought I’d tell you.”

“Why?”

“Just in case you—never mind.”

“Goodbye, John. Have fun at the pub.”

“Wha—how did you know I was headed to the pub?”

John could practically hear the eye-roll. “You typically only tell me you’re going out to the pub, most likely as a sort of safety net in case you have too much to drink and get yourself into trouble. Although I don’t know why. I’m obviously not the most reliable choice for the role of ‘Doctor Watson’s keeper.’”

“Alright, Sherlock. Yes, I’m going to the pub. I should be back by eleven. And eat something when you get out of there, please. I don’t want you starving while I’m away.”

Sherlock scoffed so loudly that John could hear it over the shower starting up. “You’ve got to stop spending time with Mycroft. You’re becoming a bit too similar to him for me to stand.”

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’m leaving, Sherlock. Eat!” With that, he grabbed his coat and left the flat.

When he reached his favorite pub, John went straight to the bar to order a pint. The bartender was just placing it on the counter before him when a familiar voice invaded his thoughts.

“John?”

“Greg. Hello. What’re you doing here?”

“I have a life outside New Scotland Yard, you know. Where’s Holmes?”

“I have a life outside Sherlock Holmes. Besides, you think Sherlock’s really one to frequent pubs?”

Lestrade laughed. “No, I suppose not.”

John took a long draught from his glass before nodding. “Definitely not.” He picked at a loose thread on his jumper before asking, “So how are things at the Yard, by the way? Sherlock’s driving me mad.”

“Sorry. We haven’t had anything so complicated that we needed him. Would have been a wasted trip to see any of those crime scenes. Sherlock would’ve been just as bored with them as he is at home.”

“Wasted trip, my arse. You just didn’t want to have to deal with him.”

“Maybe that’s true, too,” the DI conceded with a sheepish grin.

“So you sacrificed me for the greater good,” John countered with a smirk.

“Nah, it’s different. _You_ can tolerate him.”

John shrugged. “I suppose that’s what I’m known for, the poor bugger who _tolerates_ Sherlock Holmes. But nothing pulls him out of a black mood like a case. Especially a good puzzle.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to come calling when we’ve got one worth his time.”

“That’d be nice.” John paused, then chuckled to himself. “Do you think Sherlock would be interested in the case if I were to kill someone?”

“Maybe. He’d certainly wonder what got into you. But he’d figure it out in no time, he knows you too…” Greg trailed off when he looked up at the door. His jaw dropped slightly, and John turned on his stool to take a look at whatever had this effect on Lestrade. What he saw made him want to giggle, but the sight of Sherlock Holmes simply stunned him into silence instead.

There in the doorway stood his flatmate, clean now, dressed as usual in his long coat and one of his perfectly tailored suits. His nose scrunched up at the sight of time-beaten tables and worn barstools, though it didn’t drift as high into the air as bystanders might have expected. The look of disgust was quickly replaced by a calculating one, however—one that deepened when it fell on John and his companion.

When Sherlock approached, still studying their faces, John said, “Yes, we were talking about you. Sit down.” He tapped the stool next to him. Despite his inexperience sitting on tall backless seats, Sherlock managed with his usual grace. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Got bored. Followed you. So this is where you always run off to when you’ve tired of me.”

“Er…yeah,” John replied, startled at Sherlock’s words.

The consulting detective looked around once more. “Boring.” Then he turned to order a drink.

Lestrade and John shared a wide-eyed glance before the former stood and said, “Well, I should go. Good talking to you, John.” He raised his voice to speak to Sherlock over John’s head. “Nice to see you, Sherlock.”

“Please, Detective Inspector, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes before clapping John on the shoulder and muttering, “Good luck.” Then he left to two flatmates to each other’s company.

Sherlock’s clasped hands rested on the counter in front of him. John tried to read his face, but was, as usual, disappointed in his own futile attempts at deduction.

It wasn’t until the bartender placed Sherlock’s cocktail in front of them that either man spoke again.

“A sidecar?” John raised an eyebrow.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink?”

“Of course not, you’re Sherlock Holmes. All you do is whine and deduce.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “The experiments, John. You’re forgetting the experiments.”

John grinned. “Right. The experiments.” He finished his drink in a couple gulps and watched as Sherlock took a few sips of his own.

“I’m disappointed, John. I expected you to be at least reasonably entertaining this evening.”

“What could possibly be entertaining about a man sitting in a bar, drinking with his flatmate?”

“Considering it’s you and me, there’s actually quite a bit of untapped potential,” Sherlock pointed out. He smirked. “How about a game?”

John raised an eyebrow, again trying and failing to find answers in the other man’s features. Of course, he couldn’t blame his own inadequacies entirely; Sherlock was like a book on the top shelf in some corner of the library’s restricted section—only read by those with permission, and only when it was absolutely necessary. “What kind of game?”

“What kind of game is typically played in a pub?”

“A…a drinking game? You, _Sherlock Holmes_ , want to play a _drinking_ game?”

“Yes. Didn’t you hear me?”

John sighed. “What kind of drinking game?”

Sherlock seemed to consider for a moment, then replied, “A battle of wits.”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock—”

“Let me finish. When it’s my turn, you choose someone for me to read. Your turn, you deduce something about me. If either of us fails on his turn, he has to drink. If not, the other drinks.”

“And you think that’s reasonable?”

“Very.”

“In what universe is that?”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. The point is, you’re a bloody genius.”

“I know you think what I do is incredible, John, believe me,” Sherlock said. “You’ve made that quite clear in every way possible from ‘amazing’ to ‘wonderful.’ However, I am to deduce a stranger’s identity while you are to simply deduce one fact about myself with each passing turn. Surely you, who knows me well enough to determine when I haven’t eaten anything all day, can do that.”

“In all fairness, you _never_ eat anything all day,” John responded, but he had already unwillingly accepted the challenge at the smirk on Sherlock’s lips.

John sighed again. “Right. Have at it, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. Chapter One of my first bit of original fan fiction is COMPLETE. I'll try to keep updates weekly. If you actually stopped to read this lowly, humble piece of writing, I adore you and you are my favorite. (Except for Benedict. He's my REAL favorite. But you're a close second.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovelies for the kudos, and as a reward, here is chapter two. :)

“Give me a subject.”

“Fine.” John glanced up. “That woman over there. What’s her story?”

Sherlock turned his calculating stare on the woman John had indicated and quickly turned back to respond. “She has a suitcase and a tan, so clearly she doesn’t live in London. She’s only been here for a couple of nights, judging by the size of the suitcase, but she’s leaving tonight, probably taking tonight’s eleven o’clock train to Eastbourne since it’s the only one that leaves after ten. She’s not taking any of those, seeing as it’s nine-forty-five, and she’s sitting in a pub. Furthermore, she’s waiting for someone—probably some man she met on this very trip, by the wedding ring tan line and the way she keeps glancing up at the door and checking her mirror.

“Incredible. But, uh…”

Sherlock whipped his head around at John’s tone and saw what his flatmate had seen: a tall, rather beautiful woman had walked in and sat in the chair opposite Sherlock’s subject.

John laughed, reminded of the day he met Sherlock. “You always miss something, isn’t that what you said?”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock scoffed, clearly sore he’d made the same mistake twice.

John ordered a shot and slid it over to him. “Drink up.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but went about downing it more professionally than John would have thought.

John watched him, wondering how something so impossible had come to be. Sherlock, doing a shot? As the consulting detective threw his head back, John shook his own, grinning.

“Your turn,” Sherlock grumbled, lazily chucking the lime peel at him.

“Alright, alright.” John cleared his throat. “So I’m to tell something about you,” he said, soliciting a sigh and an eye roll. He studied the face before him, seeing nothing but childish contempt and aloof mystery. Eventually, Sherlock met his gaze.

“I’m waiting.”

“And?”

“You’re taking too long. You’re boring me.”

At the word “me,” John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s teeth. “You’ve never had braces,” he said firmly.

Clearly trying to suppress his intrigue, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Your evidence?”

“Your teeth are _almost_ perfect, but”—he pulled Sherlock’s lips back, startling him momentarily—“you’ve got this little gap here, right next to the incisor.”

“What makes you think I didn’t just forget to wear my retainer?”

“As likely as that is, I know it’s not right. There are no traces whatsoever,” John answered, tilting Sherlock’s head back by the chin. “Harry had braces. No scars from where the brackets rubbed the wrong way. Either you can thank that big mouth of yours or you never had braces at all.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before sighing and beckoning over the bartender. “Another,” he said, pointing to the empty shotglass and handing the man his card. “And keep them coming, just put them on the tab.”

After two shots, Sherlock’s mask seemed to be slipping slightly. John grinned. A few lucky guesses and he was on his way to victory—although how a hungover Sherlock was a victory, he couldn’t be sure. “Alright, your turn. Let’s see…” He scanned the room, looking to knock out the most difficult subjects first, while Sherlock’s mind still worked fluidly. “Him. The man in the hat.”

Sherlock studied the man as he’d studied the woman with the suitcase, albeit for a few seconds longer. “Late fifties, widowed a few months ago. He’s here frequently, as he’s on a first-name basis with the bartender. Still, he doesn’t come every day. Or if he does, it’s just to talk, no drinking. He looks much too put-together for that. Again, he knows the servers, but not well enough for a lot of conversation, meaning this is probably not his first choice of pub. Theodore’s down the street closed just a few weeks ago, that’s when he started coming here. Also, he has two large dogs and a daughter who lives in Spain.”

John nodded, processing all of that information. How could he get all of that from a glance? John resisted the “wow” that inevitably rested on his lips and said, “How am I supposed to know you’re right?”

“Let us just assume from this point forward that I am _always_ right.”

“Except that you aren’t, you were wrong about that woman—”

“I was right about _that_ woman, it was the other one that I was wrong about.”

“Fine, I concede,” John sighed, avoiding any pointless arguing. The drink somehow steadied him, prepared him to analyze Sherlock, even made him eager to. He settled on the man’s left ear, where a tiny bit of scar tissue was just barely visible on the outer shell.

“Something happened to your ear when you were a child.”

“That’s hardly a deduction, John.”

“Fine. When you were around, say, four or five years old, something sharp nicked your ear, probably a small knife, like a scalpel. It looks like it was…self-inflicted. You were experimenting.” John had to fight the urge to add “Weren’t you?” He still couldn’t keep the accusation from his tone, however.

Sherlock scowled. “You insult the practice,” he replied, “but you’ve guessed correctly.”

“I didn’t guess anything. I _know_ you were experimenting because you told me about it last month when you tried to do it again.” John only just remembered it as the words were tumbling from his mouth. “About ‘rates of blood loss from minor wounds at different levels of emotional stress’ or something bloody ridiculous like that.”

Sherlock looked a bit stunned, the alcohol blurring his carefully unimpressed demeanor. “That’s cheating.”

“All’s fair in love and drinking games.”

That at least earned a reluctant smile. Sherlock sighed and quickly took his shot. “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?” He grimaced.

John’s grin widened. “Seems like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes this week's episode, "John Is Actually Smarter Than He Thinks." Tune in next week for Part Three: "Ain't No Party Like a drunk!Sherlock Party 'Cause Sherlock is Drunk at Those."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one's shorter than Martin Freeman. Sorry for that. But that's the way it fell with a proper stopping point, so really I'm not that sorry.

After correctly deducing the barman’s life story—although quite a bit more slowly than was typical of Sherlock—the detective put his face next to John’s and smirked. “Your turn, Doctor Watson. But don’t forget the drink.”

John did as he was told, then turned to Sherlock again. Somehow, the alcohol was making it easier to look and see things about the man to use. “Your hair,” he said. “You haven’t had it cut in at least a month.”

“Wrong. I did three weeks ago. Now drink up.”

“Guess now we’re even,” John said a few moments later, blinking and shaking his head.

“Next victim!” Sherlock proclaimed, looking around like a hungry predator.

“Me,” John said immediately, surprising himself.

“Don’t be stupid, John, I already know all about you. You were a medic in Afghanistan, your sister’s drinking resulted in a divorce, you are now the _personal assistant_ of the world’s only consulting detective—”

“More like nurse,” John grumbled lightheartedly.

“You shower in the morning, you prefer wearing colorful jumpers to suits, and when it comes to tea you refuse to drink Earl Grey before eleven o’clock in the morning.”

“You forgot the blog and the bullet wound,” John pointed out after a pause.

“That hardly makes me wrong.”

“That’s not even what I mean, though. I want you to deduce something that you don’t already know.”

Sherlock looked for a moment as though he was going to protest further, but instead began, “You’re thoroughly enjoying yourself. You like seeing me…what is this? ‘Cutting loose’? Anyway, you like it. You think it suits me.”

A few drinks ago, John would have scoffed and peevishly denied it. Instead, he laughed heavily and thumped Sherlock on the back. “Evidence?”

“The smile hasn’t left your face since my first shot.”

John nodded. “I’ll take that!” And he threw back his next shot, having already prepared for it. He was unsure why he’d chosen himself as the next target. He knew Sherlock could read him all too easily. Still, he was having far too much fun to give himself a proper “why-did-you-just-let-Sherlock-bloody-Holmes-have-the-upper-hand” scolding.

“Your turn again, John!” Despite his somewhat shocking endurance thus far, John could tell Sherlock’s tendency not to drink, not to mention the fact that he hadn’t consumed more than a muffin all day, was catching up to him.

“Alright. That’s your favorite shirt.”

“What?” Sherlock giggled. _Giggled_.

“You wear that shirt nearly every other day. You had it laid out for tomorrow, but you just couldn’t resist wearing it down here to meet me. It’s your favorite shirt.”

Sherlock threw his hands up in mock exasperation. “You’ve got me. I love wearing this shirt.”

John’s grin widened as he pushed a new glass in his flatmate’s direction.

With Sherlock’s inexperience with alcohol, his tolerance was surprisingly high. It wasn’t until both men were practically falling from their stools that they were sent home.

Stumbling along towards Baker Street beside John, Sherlock slurred, “Thanks for entertaining me.” He slumped against the smaller man, almost knocking him down. He would have done, if he weren’t so light.

“That was a lot more fun than I bargained for,” John replied, paying no mind to the grown man he was now almost carrying. “You’re an unexpectedly fun drunk, Sherlock. I mean, I would have expected surly and rude and sulky, but _no_ —you’re like a little kid when you’re pissed. You’re like—”

“You’re rambling, John.” It was such a good impression of his sober self that John didn’t realize Sherlock was joking until he threw his head back and laughed again.

“Did you…did you just… _mock_ yourself?”

Sherlock nodded and wiped tears of mirth from his eyes.

John, even inebriated, was too stunned to do anything more than stare at him, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it was short. Way too short for me, anyway. I like fics with longer chapters, even if that means reading "Just one more chapter!" of a previously-completed fic turns into bed at 4 AM. That's why, maybe, if you're patient and I get as prematurely excited as I predict, I'll post the next chapter early.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Chapter Four! I was really stuck in the "I-want-to-write-more-Johnlock" mood the other day, but I wanted to write something fluffy and short and not so much like part of this story, so I wrote [this little number](http://archiveofourown.org/works/953666) and it's short and I think it's sweet even if it's not my best work. Now, let's get past the shameless self-promotion and ONWARD TO MORE DRUNK FLATMATES.

By the time they reached 221B, John _was_ carrying Sherlock, whose now constant laughter echoed deeply from the surrounding buildings. Without the influence of an indeterminate number of drinks (he’d lost count), John might have noticed the twinge in his shoulder. Then again, the sight of Sherlock Holmes reduced to gleeful hysterics might have been distraction enough.

After struggling up to the flat, John managed to get Sherlock to stand on his own two feet, but almost as soon as he’d done so, Sherlock threw his arms around his neck, giggling and hanging there.

“Thanks for making sure I didn’t spill anything on my favorite shirt,” he slurred.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have worn it if you planned on getting pissed.” John couldn’t help but smile down at him.

“But I had to. I just _love_ wearing this shirt.” Sherlock started to stumble forward again, causing John to have to back up a step. Sherlock almost fell to his knees, but held onto the front of John’s jumper to keep himself off the floor.

“I know. I deduced it.”

“I just _love_ it,” Sherlock kept mumbling through giggles as John dragged him over to the sofa.

“It looks nice.”

“I know. That’s why I like it.”

“So do all your other shirts.”

“No no no no no.” Sherlock shook his head frantically, frowning like a frustrated six-year-old. “You like it. So I like it.”

John looked at him, confused, from his own chair. “What?”

Sherlock stood again, stumbling over the coffee table and landing on the floor with an unbelievably heavy thud. John thought he heard Mrs. Hudson telling them to quiet down from below. He blinked at his flatmate, clapping gleefully from the floor as though John was a particularly interesting corpse.

“Sherlock, get up off the floor,” he said, chuckling along with him.

“Make me.”

“Fine.” John stood shakily and grabbed Sherlock’s hands, prepared to haul him into his own chair. What he wasn’t prepared for was being tugged to the floor with him, laughing and rolling around until both he and his flatmate had to stop to catch their breath.

“You _do_ like this shirt, right John?” Sherlock asked, suddenly serious.

“Well…yeah.”

“Good. That’s why it’s my favorite.”

“What about this?” John tugged at the front of his own jumper. It wasn’t his favorite, but he didn’t suppose he had a favorite.

“No. That jumper is awful.”

They burst into new fits of laughter at the same time, rolling back and forth across the hardwood.

“I like the striped one. The brown one with the stripes,” Sherlock added when he could breathe once again.

John propped himself up on his elbow. Then, when he found that too uncomfortable, he stood on wobbly legs and held out a hand to help Sherlock. “Let’s sleep.”

Sherlock was three steps ahead of him. In the time it took John to cross to the stairs, Sherlock had already rid himself of his shoes and trousers, collapsing on the sofa and falling into what seemed to be a deep slumber.

John, taking his own advice in a more prudent way, made his way upstairs and into his own bed.

John had barely been asleep for half an hour when he heard Sherlock stumbling around on the stairs. He groggily wondered what he could possibly want right now, but decided that if it was that important, he would be able to manage climbing the stairs without breaking his neck.

When Sherlock threw the door open, John expected him to demand tea or his involvement in a drunken experiment. What he did not expect was for his flatmate to yawn loudly, cross the room in nothing but his pants and his favorite purple shirt, and lie down on top of him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s breathing grew heavier by the second as he began to fall asleep.

“Sherlock. Get up.”

Nothing.

“Sherlock, at least roll over.”

Finally, he raised his head. “Shh,” he murmured, eyes closed, and pressed gentle, sloppy lips to John’s. Then his head dropped again, and John was so stunned there was nothing he could do but lie there and let Sherlock fall slowly into sleep again.

A few minutes passed before John realized how physically uncomfortable this actually was. He was starting to get lightheaded, not being able to breathe properly. With all the strength he could muster, he flipped himself onto his side, effectively throwing Sherlock to rest between himself and the wall. The man twitched a little and balled his fist, twisting the front of John’s shirt, but did not wake.

Now, with a steady flow of air into his lungs, John could really take in what was going on. If it hadn’t been for the vicelike grip on his t-shirt and the foot wrapped around his left ankle, he probably would have already grumpily left Sherlock with the thought of stealing _his_ bed. Then again, maybe that was for the best—there was no telling what Sherlock could be storing in that room that he would be horrified to find.

Resigned to staying in his own Sherlock-infested bed, his mind began to wander. Why would Sherlock have come all the way up here when he had had a perfectly good sofa, his very favorite place to sleep, already underneath him? What had woken him in the first place? Even with his thoughts slowed from drink and fatigue, it didn’t take long for them to settle on the moment when Sherlock had shushed him and earned his place in John’s bed through sheer shock and awe.

He wanted to brush it off as the action of a completely pissed, half-asleep Sherlock who’d had no idea what he was doing. He wanted to push it to the back of his mind, fall asleep, and forget it had ever happened when the morning came. He hoped Sherlock was far enough out of sorts to never remember it.

But then there was a part of him, that pesky little voice that had made its first appearance on the day they met. It was the Voice that, despite his trying to remain calm, always forced him to speak, always made him blurt out ridiculously obvious things like, “We’re not a couple,” and “For the last time, I’m not gay.” Somehow that part of him wanted to keep this locked in his memory forever, and wanted Sherlock to keep it close in his own mind too. This small but loud piece of him wanted the action to have been intentional.

Once he’d finally fallen asleep, the Voice invaded his dreams. It was all cheekbones and grey-blue eyes until sunup, when John woke violently to an oddly empty-feeling bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, friends. Chapter Five next week. :) Meanwhile, hit me up on Tumblr: [holdencaulfieldinthetardis](http://holdencaulfieldinthetardis.tumblr.com/). I need some more internet friends.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without further ado, Chapter Five! (I really wish I could've rhymed that with 'Two,' but it's Chapter Five, so that doesn't really work.)

John found Sherlock face-down on the floor next to the couch, wrapped in one of his sheets.

“Sherlock?”

“Shut up,” he muttered into the floor.

John rolled his eyes. Here was his reward for showing Sherlock a good time, rearing its ugly head. “You know, you’re going to want to drink a ton of water. Probably take something for the nausea. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Is that your official diagnosis, _doctor_?” was Sherlock’s sarcastic reply.

“Yeah, it is,” John snapped. “And you’re not the only one who’s hungover. Can you please try not to act like such an annoying dick today?”

“No.” Sherlock rolled over slightly. “Pancakes. Make them. Go.”

Despite his irritation, John wasn’t about to refuse if it meant Sherlock was going to eat without coercion, so he went to the kitchen. He pulled the mix out from behind a mouldy bag of bread that he was afraid to throw away, should it be an experiment; God forbid he threw out the bloody experiments. Before starting on the pancakes, he poured two glasses of water, practically throwing one at Sherlock as he walked into the room, yawning and clutching the sheet around his shoulders.

As the glass was thrust toward him, Sherlock instinctively dropped the sheet to take it. He caught the white linen around his chest and froze momentarily, wide-eyed, as though just remembering something. The faintest pink played at his cheeks, and he scurried from the room without as much as a “thank you.”

John raised an eyebrow. Glancing through the entryway, he noticed the remainder of Sherlock’s clothes from the night before thrown over his chair wildly.

Sherlock came back freshly sporting his dressing gown, with pyjama trousers underneath and a constant buzzing from the pocket.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” John asked him.

“No.”

“What if it’s Lestrade, with a case?”

“Don’t care.” Sherlock sat at the table, across from his microscope, and put his head in his hands. “It would be impossible for me to tolerate Anderson with this headache.”

John’s jaw dropped as though off its hinges, but he quickly reeled it in. “You’re…you don’t want a case?”

“Of course I want a case, but I am not dealing with those imbeciles at this hour of this godforsaken morning. Lestrade will call again in a few hours. By then maybe your ‘ton of water’ prescription will have helped. It hasn’t yet.”

“Sherlock, you were pissed last night! You’re really dehydrated.”

“So?”

“So where did you leave that glass? On your bedside lab counter?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, I only experiment in the kitchen.”

“Here’s another damn glass.” John slammed it onto the table, sloshing water all over Sherlock’s elbows.

“I can’t hydrate myself through osmosis, John,” he shot back in his snippy, childish manner.

“Then why don’t you drink it, genius?”

Sherlock scowled but seemed to drop the subject for lack of a good argument. He gulped it down as John turned back to the still-uncooked pancake batter and finally began pouring it into the skillet.

After a while, Sherlock spoke again. “What are you doing?”

John turned completely around in disbelief. “You asked for pancakes.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes. You did.”

“Why would I do that? I’m not even hungry.”

“But you said—you—ARRRGH!”

John, blinded by frustration, stuck his hand in the batter and pulled it out with a large glob in his cupped palm. Before he could stop himself, before he fully knew what he was doing, he flung the glob at his flatmate and hit him square in the face.

As soon as the batter left his hand, he was horrified. Sherlock slowly glared up at him. “What was that for?” His voice was calm, but his eyes were murderous.

“I—I don’t…”

They stared at each other, John in shock, Sherlock in fury, until the latter stormed out, wiping runny white substance from his face and flinging it from his own fingers onto appliances and countertops and cabinet doors.

Suddenly, John wasn’t hungry anymore either. He cleaned his hand and took his glass upstairs.

Last night’s events were still fresh in his mind, though a little blurry around the edges. He supposed he remembered Sherlock getting up sometime in the night, stumbling away. His cheeks flushed a little when he recalled the position in which he woke, arms stretched toward the door, then flushed deeper when he let himself consider the feeling of that sloppy kiss.

As he took some paracetamol and downed his glass of water, John considered what Sherlock had been doing for the past few hours, after leaving John’s bed and apparently deciding that the floor was more comfortable. Perhaps he’d just fallen asleep. Maybe he’d spent some time on John’s laptop first. Once he’d calmed his heart rate (which had mysteriously risen since the initial thought of Sherlock’s lips), John decided to find his laptop just to check.

He took the stairs slowly, still a bit nauseous. Upon entering the sitting room, however, the feeling evaporated into shock. “What are you doing?” John demanded, more from surprise than anything.

“Tidying up.”

“But…why?”

“I made a mess of things last night. I thought I’d clean it up.”

The sight of Sherlock, fully dressed and cleaning the flat, was admittedly a bit satisfying, but no less confusing than he would have thought. He was presently on his knees, scrubbing something from the floor that seemed to be mostly gone at this point, but that John hadn’t noticed earlier. He realized with a start that Sherlock had been lying in it, and suddenly he didn’t want to know.

“Are you planning on putting those through the wash as well?” John nodded toward the chair, still home to Sherlock’s favorite purple shirt, as well as his pants.

Sherlock glared at him for a moment before marching over, picking up his clothes, and tossing them into his bedroom, shutting the door. “Is there anything else that doesn’t meet your standards, John?”

John raised his eyebrows. “Um, no, you’re fine. Just…go about your business.” From the kitchen, with a fresh cup of water, he watched Sherlock’s cleaning, puzzled. Eventually he walked back into the sitting room with another glass, which he laid on the coffee table for his oddly-behaving flatmate, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t knock it over accidentally with his penchant disregard for the existence of furniture.

His fears were realized when Sherlock, suddenly deciding that the mantel needed dusting, climbed over the table in two long strides. The glass wobbled as he did so, and on the second step overturned as it was accidentally kicked. The water spread across the floor. John ran to retrieve a towel.

When he came back, Sherlock was dusting the mantel without a backward glance, as though he hadn’t just turned the room into a swimming pool. “Sherlock, watch where you step,” John grumbled, getting down on his hands and knees to mop up the spill.

“Please, John, it’s just water. If it were anything dangerous or sticky, I expect you would have put it in a more practical spot, perhaps one I’m not prone to walking on.”

John almost laughed at the notion that any dangerous substance would ever be placed on the coffee table. Like Sherlock had said, he did his experiments in the kitchen. That was where the real danger lay: where they kept the food.

After quite a long silence, during which Sherlock repeatedly dusted the skull and John made sure the water was all absorbed into the towel, John said, “Have you been drinking water? Did you take anything for nausea?”

“No and yes. All of my water glasses have somehow disappeared or been emptied by other circumstances.”

“Such as you knocking them over.”

“Precisely.”

“Damn it, Sherlock…” John went to the kitchen and returned with another full glass, this time not daring to set it down anywhere. “Look at me.”

Sherlock turned to look at him questioningly. John raised his eyebrows in answer. “If you’re going to act like you’re four years old, that’s how I’m going to treat you,” he said, stepping forward and forcing Sherlock’s fingers away from his palm so that the glass could be placed there. Once it was firmly in his hand, Sherlock looked at John again, as if expecting him to say something else. John crossed his arms.

“You’re just going to stand there?”

“I’m going to stand here until you drink that entire glass of water,” John replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes and downed the first few gulps. He pulled it away from his face and turned back to the skull, feather-duster poised in his other hand.

Before he could return to his new habit of cleaning, however, John grabbed the glass and Sherlock’s chin. He tipped the man’s head back, reminding himself again of last night’s events, when he’d held Sherlock’s head up so that he could better see his teeth. He then proceeded to tip the glass against Sherlock’s mouth, pouring water past his lips and eliciting a choke and a cough from his flatmate’s throat.

“John, have you gone mad? What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to get you to drink the bloody water you should after a night of drinking. It’s not my fault you’re a grown man who still acts like a child.”

Sherlock turned to him, confused. “What do you mean ‘acts like a child’?”

“I mean you change your mind like a madman, you play with your bloody experiments all the time, you throw a tantrum whenever anyone, including the _detectives_ , talk at a crime scene, and you refuse to do what I say even though I am your bloody _doctor_ and my only concern is your _health._ ”

The look Sherlock shot him could be taken as fair proof that he _was_ actually the petulant soul of a young schoolboy trapped in a tall, grown body. And, like a stubborn child who has been called out on a few of his less favorable and less justifiable acts, Sherlock snatched the glass from John’s hand and finished it off in defense of the charges against him.

He slammed it onto the surface of the coffee table and walked away, swinging his coat around his shoulders and storming from the flat, much like he had from the kitchen when he had been covered in pancake batter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, don't be alarmed that this is chapter 5 of 6 and there's no promise of anything really substantial yet. This particular story isn't going to really get gritty or smutty. That'll have to wait 'til the next one, which I promise to keep weekly as well. (Although, I'm not really a smut-master. I can read it all day long, but I'm a bit of a timid soul when it comes to actually writing it. Hopefully I can work up to it.) Sherlock and John aren't just fun drunk, they're fun in lots of other ways that I'm going to spread out in multiple stories. But the next one, which I'm thinking of calling "Blind," will be a continuation of this one. Hope to see you lovelies next week. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the final chapter of All's Fair. Enjoy!

John wasn’t about to follow Sherlock once he’d gotten what he wanted from him. He hoped he wasn’t on the street, shouting at some poor neighbor who was breathing too loudly, but he wasn’t going to go trying to correct him if he was.

He cleaned the cabinet doors and various other surfaces of the kitchen that were covered in batter. It wasn’t long before, as he busied himself making tea, he received a message from Sherlock:

_Bingfield Park. Leave the drinking glasses at home, please.  –SH_

 He tapped out a quick reply before pulling on his coat and going down to the street for a cab.

_On my way. No promises on the drinking glasses, though.  –JW_

When he arrived, Sherlock beckoned him toward the crime scene. He seemed to be brooding, shooting fierce looks at Lestrade’s back that told John that he must have missed something of a disagreement—though that was hardly any need for concern. Sherlock himself was a walking disagreement.

“Good to be back, yeah?” He grinned evilly at Lestrade and clapped him on the shoulder. Lestrade merely rolled his eyes and sighed in answer.

“Shut up, please,” Sherlock said.

“At least he said please,” John murmured, finally coaxing a smile to Greg’s lips.

“John!”

“Right. Sorry, Sherlock.”

He watched Sherlock study the scene. It was as amazing as ever watching him deduce, gathering all of that information with just his eyes and putting it together to form a viable, usually very correct, theory. There was something different about Sherlock’s everyday deduction and his crime-scene work, though. It was as though when there was death involved, John could see the gears working in his head, see his eyes flit not only from place to place on the corpse and its surroundings, but also between the bits of useful information he kept locked in his mind for future reference in solving murders. He saw those eyes make connections and light up momentarily before moving on to a new piece of the puzzle over and over again, like a fireworks show in grey and turquoise. It was when Sherlock deduced like this that, despite anything he would ever say and had ever said otherwise, John could see how truly beautiful the man was.

“He was walking home through the park last night when he was attacked from behind,” Sherlock said suddenly, as usual startling John. “He was pushed against that tree”—he pointed—“and then stabbed at the nape of the neck. If you look in his wallet, I’m sure you’ll find everything there; this was a crime of passion. Judging by the gym bag, the wear of his shoes, the tone of his legs, he was a frequent runner who was on his way home from a workout with a friend and whose home was within walking distance of the park.”

Sherlock paused and looked at Lestrade before continuing. “You’re looking for a short man, but one with big feet, probably another, less-coordinated runner, possibly the man’s friend.”

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock seemed to simultaneously suppress an eye roll and a smirk at John’s compliment. He met Lestrade’s eyes and said, “Will there be anything else?”

“No, that’s quite enough to go on for now. Thank you.” Lestrade glanced at John. There was an unmistakable note of gratitude in the look, though John couldn’t see why. He had only been standing there watching everyone else do their jobs, namely Sherlock.

Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away. Before following, John said, “Call us if something else comes up.”

“Yeah, well, next time try to make sure you’re _with_ him when he gets the call. That way I won’t have to deal with him on my own.”

John grimaced. “Is he really that bad?”

“Not when you’re around. Once you show up, he just gets down to business. No more insulting Anderson, no more going on about how insignificant we all are to his case. He just turns around and starts doing what I’ve called him there to do. It’s nice, really.”

John turned his head to see a very impatient-looking Sherlock standing a good hundred yards away. John turned back to Lestrade. “I’d better go. One more second and he’ll just leave me.”

“See you later then,” Lestrade said, and with a short wave to Sherlock he focused his attention on his team’s findings, although John could tell that they couldn’t hold up against Sherlock’s contributions.

“Lunch?” John asked him, deciding not to bring up the drinking-glass incident.

“Fine.”

“What sounds good to you?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry.”

John sighed. He’d expected as much. “How about if we just go down to the pub—?”

“Please, John, I don’t ever want to go near another pub,” Sherlock groaned, putting a hand to his forehead.

“Fine, we’ll get Chinese.”

“Take away?”

“Yes, sure. Maybe then you’ll even eat it,” John grumbled, rolling his eyes, but he wasn’t going to put any money on that. Sherlock strode briskly from the park, forcing John to struggle in keeping his pace. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, not everyone’s so tall.”

“I do not possess excessive height, John, you are simply too short to keep up.”

John shot him a look, but it was less than effective directed at the back of Sherlock’s head. John glared into Sherlock’s dark curls for a moment, willing him to feel his eyes boring into him, but soon realized it was no use—that mop was like a shield. He gave up and just focused on lengthening his own stride in a way that didn’t make him feel like a little boy trying to stay in step with his mother.

+++

Much to John’s surprise, it only took Sherlock about half an hour to walk away from the latest stomach-turning thing he was doing in the kitchen and sit down opposite John with his own food. Apparently, the argument they’d had at the counter when John forced him to order was forgotten. John recognized this as Sherlock’s expression of appreciation.

“Hungry, now, are you?”

“Oh, shut up.”

John grinned in spite of himself at the sight of his flatmate brooding over the first solid thing he’d eaten that day. “Telly?”

Sherlock nodded, seemingly lost in thought. John flipped through channels, looking for something, _anything_ , that might interest Sherlock before he decided eating was too mundane and that he should get back to boiling human hair or whatever he had been doing.

Before he could find any such programme, however, Sherlock spoke. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

John stared at him suspiciously. “For what?”

“The food.”

“Y-you’re welcome, I suppose.”

He watched Sherlock take another couple of bites before turning back to the television, a bit dazed. Finally, he found some crime drama that they could both enjoy—Sherlock for the puzzle, John for the excitement.

They watched. Sherlock ate. Before long John’s phone rang: Lestrade, not taking any more chances with going directly to Sherlock, evidently.

“As interesting as sitting in front of the telly all night may be, that was Lestrade. There’s been another body found. A woman this time, same wound to the back of the neck—”

Sherlock was out of his chair in a heartbeat. He tossed John’s coat in the general direction of his chair as he slid his arms into his own. “Ready?”

John glanced at the screen, then back at Sherlock. “Oh _God,_ yes.”

Sherlock pulled him up out of the chair and flew down the stairs, dragging him along by the elbow.

As much fun as he’d had at the pub, this was going to be even more. That was life with Sherlock Holmes: each night better than the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope that didn't disappoint too much. However, this story is far from over. I'll be posting the start of the next installment soon, lovlies. In the meantime, I wanted to mention that I'm also working on this insane parent!lock Supernatural crossover. It is my youngest brainchild, and I hope to give it all the love and attention that I have given to its elders. Wish me luck!
> 
> (PS: If there's something you'd like to see happen in this story, or another idea for a ficlet or something, send me an ask on Tumblr, [holdencaulfieldinthetardis](http://holdencaulfieldinthetardis.tumblr.com/). I'm always looking for ideas, so if you have a fun one, suggest it!)


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